Time
by Arana Suteshi
Summary: [Yaoi, Character Death, Oneshot, Conrad POV][YuuriWolfram, ConradYuuri] [Repost] There was a time when I would not dare to love him as I do now...


**Beta Help**: soja04, squallwinger, peanutbaby13, shinineko1  
**Title:** Time  
**Author:** Arana Suteshi  
**Pairings:** Yuuri x Wolfram, Conrad x Yuuri  
**Details:** Yaoi, Character Death, One-shot, Conrad POV  
**Disclaimer: **_Kyou Kara Maou_isthe creation of Tomo Takabayashi

**Author's Note:** This is a "what if" scenario exploring the muddled timeline the KKM gods have given us. More to the point, I wanted to play with the characters ages, particularly after seeing Episode 47. I'm writing on the assumption that half-demons age slower than humans, but faster than demons. I calculated their ages by multiplying their "human age" by three. For the demons, of course, I multiplied their "human age" by five. For the purpose of this fic, Conrad would have been around 100 years old during the series.

I am told this is a sad story.

* * *

**Time**

The average demon will live to be around four-hundred years old. One-hundred of those years will be their childhood and their slow climb out of adolescence. The last one-hundred years will be their slow descent to death. Between those two events, many demons forget how old they are. They lose the need to keep track of their years, until they suddenly find themselves growing steadily older and realize how much time has passed.

It has been a long time since I've seen an elder demon. My mother is only just beginning her descent. I can see the lines forming at the corners of her eyes when she smiles. She sighs at her reflection now, though she is still as beautiful as she ever was. I tell her I like the lines. I like to see her aging. It is new to me, to see her finally growing older. I smile when I look at her.

Just as she weeps when she looks at me.

The average half-demon will live to be around two-hundred and forty years old. In forty short years, I will be older than my mother. She will age very little in that time, and I will be standing on death's doorstep.

We look at our reflections and not at each other. We are amused and terrified of the contrast in our images. She looks like a mother, but still young, with a hundred years yet to live. I am already an old man. My hair is gray and there are lines all over my weathered face. She tells me I look like my father while tears gather in her eyes.

I can hear a commotion outside. Someone is shouting. Footsteps pound down the hall outside my door.

"He's here," I breathe.

She looks at me with sad eyes. The wrinkles are a bit deeper, and there are fine lines forming around her mouth as she frowns. But I can see a hint of excitement in her expression, I can see her fighting the need to run from me and greet the new arrival.

I take her arm and lead her out of the room. The castle is cold; my bones ache as I limp along beside my mother. She strides forward with the grace and pride of her youth, but slowly so I can keep up. Old wounds have done their damage, and my body is tired of being strong.

The courtyard is crowded with staff and soldiers, all swarming around the carriage that has pulled up to the fountain. They call out his name, welcome him home, and struggle to get a better look. Mother and I stop at the top of the stairs; she presses a hand to her lips and holds her breath. The door opens and he steps out. I can see the green of his eyes even from here, and I breathe out, unaware that I too had stopped breathing.

He looks up, right at me. I expected a narrow gaze filled with anger. Instead, his look is gentle, if not a little sad. He climbs the stairs with a kind of elegance even Mother envies, and the crowd parts to let him pass. They are silent, and I don't blame them. They came to look on the last son of Cecilie von Spitzberg, the Maou's wayward husband, and they are awestruck.

Or maybe I am the one who is so overwhelmed that I don't notice the rest of the world moving on around me. His face is older, but still smooth and youthful. His hair is darker, but still bright and golden. Were he human, I would guess him to be just over twenty, but for his eyes. His eyes, though still large and feigning innocence, speak of the many years behind him, the many trials his heart has endured, and the battle that still wars within him.

Mother steps forward to gather him to her. I am pleased to see that he is still shorter than she, if only by a tick. It is a comfort to think that she still has her "baby", that he will never grow older than she, that she will never have to see him die.

He steps back and kisses her cheek, a gesture I last saw twenty years ago, when he was saying good-bye. He tells her that he's missed her, and she asks him not to leave again. He makes her no promises, and I know he will be leaving as soon as he is able.

His eyes find me staring at him, and my mind is not fast enough to react to the small smile he gives me. A smile that does not reach his eyes. They are a reflection of my own: sad, desperate, and lost. We brought ourselves to this moment, and now we don't know how to move beyond it.

Pain shoots up my leg, and I remember.

I remember him screaming at me, at Yuuri. I remember how the tears fell from his eyes, how red his face was. I could feel the heat radiating from his body as his emotions raged. I gave up on trying to reason with him. There was nothing I could have said that would have saved us. I let myself get angry.

I told him. I told him everything. What he had just witnessed was not our first kiss, and would not be the last. Yuuri and I had been sneaking around behind his back for quite some time. Several years, in fact.

We didn't do it to hurt him. He wasn't supposed to find out. We were trying to protect him. He wouldn't have understood. Yuuri loved him, still loved him even when he was caught with his arms around me. But everything had changed, and we were all trapped in a conflict between what we knew was right and what we desperately needed. Wolfram's need was greater; he needed Yuuri like he needed air. Our needs were selfish. I needed the love I had not allowed myself to have. Yuuri needed an equal.

Much to everyone's surprise, I drew my sword first. Wolfram, choking on his tears, stood back and pulled his weapon free of its sheath. And then he smiled. Actually smiled. It was then that I understood. He knew about the affair, and he was tired of trying to win his husband back. He wanted a way out.

I never fought so hard as I did that night. There was a time or two when I thought we might kill each other. I know he wanted me to kill him. I refused, so he fought harder, demanding that I end it for him. He was too proud to do it himself. In the end, we both lost. Almost simultaneously we collapsed in the hall outside Yuuri's bedroom. When I woke two days later, with a broken leg and a body littered with bruises, he was kissing Mother good-bye.

He turns his head and I can see him searching. I can't tell whether he is relieved or disappointed. Either he has learned to conceal his emotions, or I am not as good at guessing them anymore. Yuuri won't come to greet him, but I don't say so. He has already guessed it.

He is not so good at hiding his resignation as he turns to hold his hand out to a young woman waiting a few steps below. He draws her up to our level and presents her to us. She has a familiar face, the same wide brown eyes I remember from Greta's youth. She is probably older than she looks, with her grandfather's demon blood running through her veins. I count back and figure she is probably in her early twenties, though she looks to be around sixteen.

Her name is Nicole. She is Yuuri and Wolfram's great-great-granddaughter. Her smile is weak, and I don't blame her. They have not come home for a casual visit.

"It's been long trip," Wolfram says. "I'm sure Nicole would like to rest."

Mother agrees, taking the girl by the hand and leading them away from the still present crowd of onlookers.

I don't follow. Though he shows me no animosity, I can feel that my presence is not wanted. I wait until they are out of sight before I limp away down a separate hall. This one brings me to the king's wing, where Yuuri's door is shut tight and most likely locked from the inside. Two guards stand on either side, an unusual addition. Since he had come into his power forty years ago, his need for protection had become nonexistent. There was no opponent alive who could outmatch the power of the Maou, especially now that he had full control of it.

The guards greet me as I step between them and pound on the door. "It's just me, Yuuri," I call.

A moment later, I hear the bolts slide out of place and the door opens. He searches the hall before letting me in and shutting the door. He locks it quickly.

"I heard the trumpets. He's here, isn't he?" he asks, walking quickly to the window to scan the garden below. His hands twitch in agitation and he can't seem to stand still for very long. He dances back and forth from one side of the window to the other, searching. Wolfram always wandered the garden when they were younger.

"He's here," I confirm. "But I'm sure he would rather see _her_ first. She is why he came home, after all."

Yuuri's shoulders tense, then droop. He deflates against the wall, but keeps his eyes on the garden. "I suppose there's no avoiding it. We'll have to talk at some point."

"You should," I agree. "Regardless of the past, you are still his husband."

He flinches and I feel like an ass for bringing it up. Unfortunately, it's the truth, and something we still have to deal with. Gwendal and Gunter failed to find a loophole that would allow them to dissolve their failing marriage, and so they were forced to remain husbands in the public eye. For that reason, Yuuri and I were forced to keep our relationship a secret, and Wolfram, should he take another lover, was to keep his affairs hidden, lest we damage the good name of Shin Makoku.

I watch his lips move as he discusses his plan of action with himself. Even after all these years, he gives voice to his thoughts, muttering to himself or anyone who is near enough to listen. These traits that he has never outgrown endear me to him even more.

There was a time when I would not dare to love him as I do now. I was a man when I looked on him after his birth. He was only fifteen when we met again, and I was in my hundreds. Despite my fondness for him, he was but a child. I believed then that no matter how many years passed, he would always be too young.

How wrong I was.

We were never certain of how Yuuri would age in our world. He and Wolfram were forced to hold off on their wedding until we were certain he would not age as a human and die within sixty or seventy years. Wolfram didn't care; he swore he would love Yuuri no matter how quickly he aged. Yuuri was the one with the reservations. He didn't want to put Wolfram through the pain of watching him die.

After two years, he still looked sixteen, and the wedding commenced. I remember how happy they were.

If only we had known.

We allowed ourselves to assume two possibilities. One, Yuuri would remain "sixteen" until he was roughly in his eighties and then begin the normal course of demon aging, which would result in Wolfram's eventually physically maturing ahead of him. Two, he would age as though he were already in his eighties, and thus mature at the same rate as Wolfram. We didn't think of the third option.

Being the Maou does not excuse the fact that Yuuri is only half demon. The change was gradual, but within twenty years we began to see a difference. He had become a man, and Wolfram was just barely more than a child.

I was one-hundred and twenty years old when I first looked on Yuuri and felt my blood burn. He was a perfect blend of the youthful boy I adored and the powerful Maou his emotions called forth. As he grew in power and learned to control his immense gift, so his spiritual other half merged with him, until they were no longer two sides of the same man, but one man completed.

An attraction long buried resurfaced. I tried to hide it away, but my lingering looks, my unbidden desires, they could not be so easily stowed away. He saw them, and returned them. I denied him at first. He was lonely, I knew. He often tried to avoid Wolfram, went to bed only after he knew his husband was sleeping, and woke before Wolfram woke. It became clear to me that no matter what they did, the growing distance between them would not be mended.

It was wrong. We knew that. Despite their troubles, Yuuri still loved his husband. But I knew it was difficult for him. Wolfram was still trapped in his youth. The body that was once alluring and beautiful to Yuuri no longer appealed to him. He had grown up, and he wanted a grown up companion. Waiting for his husband to catch up was killing him.

We promised after the first lust-filled night that we would never seek each other's company again. We made the same promise after the second night, and the third. After a while, we stopped making promises.

By my calculations, Yuuri was the equivalent of a one-hundred year old half demon. For a long-lived people, there is not much difference between one-hundred and one-hundred and twenty. We were of an age, and perfectly suited for each other. We could grow old together, and die together, and never worry about leaving the other behind for more than a handful of years.

We are both old men now, and despite the complications, we are looking forward to our descent together.

There is a knock at the door and I turn away from my lover to answer it. Mother tells me that it is time. Yuuri hears her and is already walking toward us when I turn to address him. He swallows thickly and there are tears already gathering in his eyes. I pause to touch his face, wrinkled, but not as badly as mine. His black hair, now peppered with gray, tickles the back of my hand, and he smiles to thank me for the comfort.

We make our way through the castle, anxious to get to our destination, but slowed by our grief and the vain hope that the longer it takes to get there, the longer she will remain.

We arrive sooner than I expect. Yuuri hesitates at the door, then boldly pushes it open and strides in. His steps falter as soon as he clears the threshold. I enter behind him and catch his arm. There is a sharp hiss of breath and I see Wolfram by the bed, patting a baby's bottom as he rocks side to side in an attempt to calm her crying. I can see his pain as he adverts his gaze and whispers in the baby's ear.

Yuuri stares for a while longer. There is a renewed interest in his eyes as he looks on my younger brother, an interest I have not seen since he first fell in love with Wolfram seventy years ago. Wolfram is no longer the child who left us twenty years ago. He is a man now, the very thing Yuuri tried to but could not wait for.

My king raises his hand and looks. He looks at the dry, tight skin, the bony fingers, and the spider web of lines and creases that define his age. He huffs and I can see what he is thinking. What good would have done to wait? Wolfram is finally a desirable young man, and Yuuri is an elder well passed his prime.

The room is large enough to fit everyone comfortably, but Yuuri stands so close to Wolfram that their elbows bump and Wolfram has to turn to keep from jostling the baby that has just fallen asleep. Though they are awkward with the minimal distance between them, neither one leaves. The woman in the bed is far more important than their personal feelings, and they know it will make her happy to see them together.

They used to look as though they belonged together, and I am sorry that their happiness was so short lived. It was never my intention to betray my brother…again. When Yuuri finally had his sexual awakening and took Wolfram as his lover, I had never seen my brother so happy. It didn't take long for Yuuri to fall in love. They became a perfect couple, if a bit too promiscuous. I can recall Gunter whining about how distracted the king had been, how he was always tired in the morning, and how he developed a habit of disappearing in the middle of lessons to meet up with his enthusiastic fiancé.

As their difference in age became apparent, so their marriage began to unravel. Yuuri's needs changed, and Wolfram could not meet them. I watched my brother struggle to keep up, damning himself and his blood for holding him back. Their sex life dwindled to nothing. Yuuri often came to me, frustrated with how undesirable his husband had become. "It's not his fault," he told me, "but I just can't look at him the way I used to. He…he looks like a kid!"

I know the feeling.

A frail hand reaches up from the bed. Yuuri sits beside her and covers the trembling fingers with his own. He smiles fondly down on the wise old face, into the eyes that struggle to stay open.

"Dad," she smiles. With a great amount of effort, she turns her head and looks up at Wolfram, "Daddy."

Wolfram expertly shifts the sleeping baby to one arm and reaches down to touch the thin white curls atop her head. Others in the room are moving forward to say farewell. She doesn't have the energy to address them individually; she gives them all a weak smile and closes her eyes. Two shallow breaths later, her head lolls to the side and her body goes slack.

Yuuri kisses her hand and places it on her chest. His eyes are shimmering with unshed tears when he looks up at Wolfram's face. Wolfram's looks down, his cheeks wet and his breath ragged. I fight back a surge of jealousy when he throws his arms around Wolfram's waist and sobs against his stomach. The baby is taken away and my brother holds Yuuri's shoulders. Around them, their grandchildren and great-grandchildren gather around to mourn.

As I predicted, Wolfram leaves two days later, taking a handful of his grandchildren and their children with him. He was always a loving father, so I am not surprised to see him dedicating himself to Greta's offspring. Knowing my brother and his code of honor, he has never taken a lover. He will remain alone until Yuuri passes away, and even then I think it will be a long time before he seeks the companionship of another.

Yuuri stands beside me as we watch the carriage roll out of the courtyard. I can see a flicker of the past in his eyes. There is an emotion just breaking through the black irises, a hint of the love he once felt for his husband coming forward. His expression is sad as the crowd disperses, the object of their fascination long gone. I reach out and touch his hand, and he turns to smile at me.

Time has treated us poorly, I think. But as his hand closes around mine, mindless of the people still lingering around us, I find I am happy to share this bittersweet memory with him.


End file.
